


(Untitled)

by earthtoalley



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Child Murder, Eloping, F/M, Homosexuality, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Murder, Period-Typical Homophobia, Phobias, Racist Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:39:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthtoalley/pseuds/earthtoalley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deep in the heart of the 1950s, Louisiana native Charles Montgomery has just broken his young lover, Nancy, out of a mental institution. With the police on their tail, just what secrets will he discover about the girl he thought he knew?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Charles Montgomery stood outside the cold, stone walls of the Hawthorn Institution, scuffing the heel of his shoes against the gravel as he teased last few embers of life from the butt of his cigarette. He flicked the smoking remnants of it on the ground, stubbing it out with his toe and running a hand through his slicked back blonde hair, before making his way to the entrance of the institute, a leather briefcase tucked under his arm.

“Can I help you, sir?” the security guard questioned from behind his desk, a thin stream of smoke rising from a glass ashtray beside him.

Charles studied him briefly; he looked middle-aged, soft wrinkles marred his face and his teeth had yellowed from the nicotine in the expensive cigars he smoked.

“My name is Robert Hoskins,” he said coolly, “I have business with Sister Agnes.”

“Is Sister Agnes expecting you?” the guard asked, getting to his feet suspiciously.

“She isn’t, but I’m afraid I didn’t have time to call ahead. If you could show me to her office, sir,” Charles said with a smile, the condescending tone of his voice subtle.

The guard, a man by the name of William James, eyed Charles suspiciously once more before picking up a thick, pleather-bound book and thrusting it towards him. Charles understood the gesture, producing a pen from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, the initials ‘C.M.’ engraved on the side in gold script. He held the pen, and old but delicately cared for fountain pen, with the engraving towards him, doing his best to hide it from William without seeming suspicious. He signed the guestbook, taking great care to falsify the handwriting and signature so that it in no way matched his own. He handed the book back to William once he was done, pocketing the pen once more, and flashing William an expectant smile as the older man surveyed the information Charles had entered. Begrudgingly, however, William led Charles to the office of Sister Agnes.

“I can take it from here, Mr. James,” Charles said, slipping William a twenty dollar bill as if he were the doorman of a slick jazz club.

“Not to seem ungrateful, sir, but I don’t need your charity. I’m not some desperate nigger,” William said icily, crumpling the note up and letting it fall to the floor as he walked away.

“Your loss, my friend,” Charles muttered, bending down to pick up the crumpled note, and knocked on the door.

The varnished mahogany was hard against his skin, his knuckles stinging for the faintest of moments with each rap on the door. The hallway he stood in was empty and eerily quiet; the only sound Charles could hear was his steady heartbeat in his ears. Minutes passed, and still no answer was garnered from inside the office. Charles let out a frustrated sigh, checking the time on his wristwatch quickly. There wasn’t much time left. If he couldn’t find Sister Agnes, her second in command would have to do. Charles moved his briefcase to his other arm, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses, and set off to find some other figure of authority.

His footsteps echoed down the long corridor, the noise bouncing off the tiled walls. The place, Charles cogitated, was as bland and dreary as he had envisioned. Charles followed the grey corridors for what felt like a lifetime, and encountered nothing but his own shadow. He was starting to doubt that, aside from the aging William Jones, there was any other life within the walls of the institute. He let out a resigned sigh and was about to turn back the way he had come, when a scraggly woman barrelled into him. Charles caught the woman before she fell, the force of their collision knocking her off her feet. Concern washed over him as he regarded how frail she appeared; her pasty white skin was stretched painfully tight across her bones, her hair wild and patchy. The woman looked up at him, her eyes bloodshot and fidgety.

“Nan?” he questioned, almost sounding afraid.

The woman watched him for the briefest of moments and opened her mouth as if to answer his question. The sound that left her throat, however, was not an answer, but maniacal laughter. She scrabbled at Charles’ lapel, trying to pull him down to her level, still laughing all the while, her eyes darting from one direction to the next almost instantly.

“Clara!” a young woman’s voice rang through the corridor.

Charles looked up, seeing a woman roughly in her late twenties dresses in a nurse’s uniform, her auburn hair pulled up into a bun. Freckles graced her porcelain skin, though her lips were a deep red colour, no doubt the result of generous applications of lipstick, Charles thought.

Two porters rushed around the corner, both coloured boys not long out of high school, and dragged the crazed woman away from Charles, waiting for further instruction from the flame-haired nurse. Charles straightened himself up, brushing down his lapel and adjusting his tie, which the crazed woman had caught hold of it. Whether or not she had intended to strangle him, he would rather not know.

“Take her to solitary for the time being,” the nursed sighed, wiping her brow with her forearm.

The two porters led the woman, Clara, off, her laugh still echoing down the hall.

“Do you have permission to be here?” the nurse asked, turning her attention to Charles.

“I do, ma’am. You can check with Mr. Jones, if you don’t believe me.”

“That won’t be necessary. Nurse Cagstone,” she said, offering Charles a hand to shake, a gesture very much alien to him coming from a woman. He shook her hand, for the sake of keeping up appearance. “What can we do for you?”

“I had business with Sister Agnes concerning one of your patients, but I understand you have the authority to release patients as well?”

“In certain cases. Why? Who are you?”

“Robert Hoskins. I’m Nancy Devereaux’s lawyer.”

“Nancy Devereaux? I’m sorry, Mr. Hoskins, but we can’t just let her go, considering the crimes she’s committed.”

“I understand your concerns, but I really must insist.”

“Mr. Hoskins, Miss Devereaux is far from recovered.”

“And yet from my experience, she is far from insane. I have an order for her release from the judge overseeing her case. I can get it for you, if you’d care to see it?” he asked, moving to open his briefcase with the same cocky arrogance found in a businessman.

“No, no, that won’t be necessary. We’ve had enough squabbles with the courts these past few months; they’ve threatened to shut us down if we question their judgement once more. Very well, I’ll find her and tell her the good news. If you’d like to follow me?”

Charles nodded at her politely, following her through the myriad of corridors back to the entrance, where upon he was told to wait until they fetched Miss Devereaux. Nurse Cagstone made her way to the common room; a large hall filled with wooden folding chairs and a few small end tables. On several of the tables sat one board game or another, with several patients grouped around each one; some playing, others simply surveying. A small television sat in one corner of the room, the black and white image flickering in and out of life. Nurse Cagstone looked around the room, her sights finally settling on a shapely young woman sat amongst a group of male patients, shuffling a pack of cards with a cigarette dangling from her lips. Packs of cigarettes were piled up on the table in front of her, along with several other odd trinkets, one of which was an elderly patient’s dentures. Nurse Cagstone made her way over to the group, waving her hand to try and dissipate some of the cloud of smoke hanging over their heads.

“Mr. Reynolds, I thought you were on strict orders not to gamble?” she questioned, making one of the group, a lanky, bald man jump, the cards in his hand splaying across the table.

“Just ‘cause I’m playin’, don’t mean I’m gamblin’,” he countered, scratching his bald head.

“You had a shit hand anyway, John,” another laughed, causing him to grab his last carton of cigarettes moodily, rising to his feet and skulking off towards the television.

“Did you want something, Nurse _Hag_ stone? Or are we just having too much fun for your liking?” Nancy questioned in her thick Louisiana drawl, still shuffling he cards as she looked up at the nurse, smugness gleaming in her chestnut eyes.

“Watch your tongue, swamp rat, or I’ll rip up the pardon your lawyer came carrying,” the nurse warned.

“A pardon? You mean I’m getting out of this hellhole?” Nancy questioned, and the nurse nodded. Nancy got to her feet excitedly, scooping up several of the cartons of cigarettes as she did. “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure playing with y’all.”

Nancy didn’t wait for a response from the others, walking towards the entrance to the room, Nurse Cagstone walking beside her. The starched cotton of her uniform rubbed against her skin as it always did, but in that moment it was but a minor complaint. She had been locked up in Hawthorn for the last two years, and had somehow managed to retain her sanity.

Nurse Cagstone led her to a small supply closet, pointing her towards a large metal bin filled to the brim with clothes donated by the Salvation Army for the relatively few patients that were cured of their supposed afflictions. Nancy picked out the least, but arguably still, hideous clothes, changing into them quickly and following Nurse Cagstone again, who had since gotten Nancy’s personal effects; a pair of black heels, a small purse containing three dollars and seventy one cents exactly, and a long since dried out tube of lipstick.

“Y’know, Nurse _Hag_ stone,” Nancy said, a smirk crossing her plump lips, “I can’t help but notice you wear the same lipstick as I do. And, surely, I couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t start wearing it til I got here. That’s almost a compliment.”

Nurse Cagstone pursed her lips, both turning into thin red lines compared to the soft pin of the younger girl’s. “I’d say that I’ll miss you, Nancy, but I won’t. It won’t be long before you’re back in here.”

“Oh, really? And what makes you say that?” Nancy asked, amused.

“When they brought you here, they told Sister Agnes and I that you were a sociopath; likely to be one tough cookie to crack, but that ultimately you stood a half decent chance and redemption and rehabilitation. Boy, were they wrong. You’re a God damn psychopath, and if you’re not back here within the month, I’ll be surprised,” she said venomously.

Nancy merely smiled. “Say a big ‘fuck you’ to Sister Agnes for me.”

Nancy didn’t wait for Nurse Cagstone to reply, slipping on her shoes and dropping the lipstick tube on the floor, the plastic clattering loudly against the cement. She headed towards the entrance hall, her heels clicking against the floor with each step. She couldn’t help smiling when she saw Charles, but tried to remain professional.

“Good afternoon, Miss Devereaux,” he said politely, “Let’s get you out of here.”

Nancy nodded, waiting patiently while Charles signed out, following him out to his car, a red 57’ Ford. She threw her purse, along with the cartons of cigarettes, on the backseat, getting in the front with Charles. She didn’t look back at Hawthorn as they drove away, sitting in silence until Charles had put a good few miles between them and the institution.

“Thank you for coming and getting me,” she said, her eyes glued to the road in front of them.

“I’m just sorry I took so long, Nan,” Charles said, glancing at her, loosening his grip on the steering wheel.

Nancy looked at him, a grin spreading across her face. Charles saw it, laughing slightly in relief. Nancy shimmied over in her seat, leaning into Charles, his arm around her shoulders.

“I felt terrible about leaving you in there so long, Nan,” he said, his voice changing from that of a slick, New York businessman to his proper accent, the same Louisiana drawl as Nancy.

“All that matters is you came back for me, sweet.”

The rest of their drive was spent in silence, the two just enjoying being in each other’s company once more. Charles pulled in at a motel later that evening, signing for a room once again under the name Robert Hoskins, and carrying his young lover over the threshold, promising her that he would treat her to a new dress the next morning.


	2. Chapter 2

The common room felt quiet the rest of the day. The troublesome patients made the same ruckus as usual, but even their noise seemed muffled compared to normal. By the time the late afternoon rolled around, only the more sane patients remained in the room; the majority of them gathered around the television, watching a pretty blonde try her luck on that day’s episode of The Price Is Right. Two porters, the same two that Charles had seen, were sat watching it as well, the both of them discussing their plans for the weekend, both looking forward to some much deserved time off.

John Reynolds, along with the rest of Nancy Devereaux’s regular companions, sat around a small end table, several ashtrays resting on its surface.

“That bitch done gone and cleaned me out, she did,” he lamented bitterly, lighting his last cigarette.

“It was your own God damned fault, John. You’re an awful gambler, let alone against Nancy,” another commented, his lank brown hair tucked behind his ears to keep it out of his eyes.

The porters had often tried to cut Dean McIrish’s hair; they had even succeeded once or twice, but for the most part he was left alone. Dean was deathly afraid of germs that weren’t his own; he would never share cigarettes, and would often have to be forced into his uniform, only to be forced out of it again at the end of the week. Both Dean and the porters dreaded meal times; Dean refused to eat anything prepared by anyone other than himself, and as a result had been force fed every meal since his arrival at Hawthorn three years prior. It had been Dean that had proposed their little gang introduce themselves to Nancy when she first arrived, though she pipped him to the post, winning John Reynold’s supply of cigarettes before Dean had a chance to put his plan into action. Part of Dean admired her charisma, and her ability to blend in as one of the boys while retaining her ladylike charm. The other part of him resented her for rejecting his advances. He resented her anonymous lover even more.

“She played us all for fools, gentlemen,” the third member of the group laughed, clapping Dean on the shoulder, much to the brunette’s chagrin.

Kit Martin, a slim built man with a wild head of red hair that could rival a lion’s mane at times, had become somewhat their ringleader since Nancy’s departure, though Sister Agnes frowned upon his closeness with his fellows. Kit had endured his latest session of conversion therapy but a few hours before, and still felt a little nauseous from the cocktail of drugs still running through his veins. The Sister vouched for the therapy, claiming she had seen a vast improvement in Kit’s ‘perversions’ and that there was still hope for his soul, though Kit would proclaim differently. Instead, however, he endured his ‘therapy’ and kept his mouth shut in the hope of gaining an early release.

“Thought you swore no dame’d get the best of ya?” John chortled, a puff of smoke rising from his lips.

“Nancy’s not just some broad, though, is she? She’s got class,” Dean cut in, a frowning Kit biting his tongue, while John kept laughing.

“You would say that. You followed her around like a little puppy dog,” another of their group called. No one knew his name, and they never paid him much attention, but still he persisted.

“Did not,” Dean argued, a frown creasing his brow.

“You kinda did, pal,” Kit chuckled.

“Pal? I ain’t your fucking pal, queer!” Dean roared, rising to his feet, the sudden movement knocking the end table and its contents to the floor.

Kit jumped to his feet, if only to step back, but Dean took it as a sign of aggression, his fist colliding with Kit’s chin before the redhead had a chance to defend himself. Dean had knocked the smaller man on his back before Kit had really grasped the situation, blood dribbling from his nose as Dean struck him once more. The two porters sprung to action once they heard the commotion, the both of them grappling Dean and trying to pull him off Kit. Dean caught one of them on the nose with his elbow before they succeeded, hot, red blood seeping into the porter’s white collar.

“I didn’t know this was a children’s ward.”

Kit looked up from where he still lay on the floor, seeing the spindly frame of Sister Agnes, her grey hair hidden beneath her habit, her cold, hawk-like gaze fixed on Dean. She walked towards them, her arms crossed at the wrist behind her back, her ivory loafers squeaking against the floor with each step.

“Might I ask why you attacked Mr. Martin here, Mr. McIrish?” she questioned, coming to a stop in front of Dean.

“He was…” Dean faltered, not able to look Sister Agnes in the eye.

“He was what, Mr. McIrish?” the Sister asked expectantly.

“He didn’t do anything, Sister,” Dean muttered, his gaze glued to his feet.

“Then why on Earth did you attack him?” she questioned, not earning a response. “Cat got your tongue? Perhaps you can shed some light as to why I walked in here to find two grown men acting like children, Mr. Martin.”

“I was rattling his cage about Nancy Devereaux, Sister,” Kit admitted. He had discovered that it didn’t pay to lie to Sister Agnes the hard way.

“And where is Miss Devereaux? Has she gotten herself thrown back in solitary so soon after her release?” Sister Agnes asked with a laugh, though there was no humour in her tone.

Kit looked up at her in confusion, as did the two porters. Sister Agnes looked at Kit expectantly, the harshness of her gaze sending shivers down his spine.

“She’s gone, Sister,” Kit mumbled eventually.

“Escaped?”

Kit shook his head. “She was released.”

“Released?” Sister Agnes questioned in disbelief. “That girl was sent here to be locked away until her death. Who in their right mind authorised her release?”

“Nurse Cagstone, Sister.”

Sister Agnes bit back a grimace at the mention of Nurse Cagstone. The two women saw far from eye to eye, and Sister Agnes resented the day the nurse had been hired. Hawthorn Institution was one of few church run institutions, and while Nurse Cagstone had been employed by the church, she was an atheist, and hell bent on seeing the sanatorium turned over to the state.

“Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Martin. Take the both of them to solitary to think about their childish behaviour.”

One of the porters, the bigger of the two, kept hold of Dean, marching him out of the common room, while the other pulled the still bleeding Kit to his feet. Sister Agnes waited til the two troublemakers had been escorted from the room before addressing John Reynolds and the few remaining in his company.

“I might advise, gentlemen, that you find yourselves some better associates. Mr. McIrish and Mr. Martin have thus far proven to be detrimental to your recovery,” she said softly, trying to keep her tone suggestive rather than commanding.

“That might be true, Sister, but they ain’t half fun,” John grinned a laugh escaping his lips.

“That attitude won’t help you get out of here any faster, Mr. Reynolds.”

With that, Sister Agnes took her leave, heading for the office of the institute’s doctor in search of Nurse Cagstone, though her best bet was the office of the nurse herself. Not that Sister Agnes would call it an office, herself. Nurse Cagstone had insisted upon her arrival that she have an office of her own. “For the benefit of the patients,” she had insisted, though Sister Agnes had yet to see just how and why it benefitted the patients. The only person it benefitted, as far as Sister Agnes could see, was the nurse herself; no one was permitted to enter without knocking first and gaining permission, which gave the nurse plenty of opportunity to conspire against Sister Agnes. To all intents, the Sister knew her suspicions were mostly paranoid delusions, but she couldn’t help keeping her guard up around her.

The Sister made her way to Nurse Cagstone’s office, refusing to knock, her sudden entrance shocking the nurse, who looked up from her desk in surprise, expecting to see a mob of disgruntled porters and a crazed patient.

“Sister Agnes, I thought I made myself quite clear about _everyone_ having to knock before they enter my office,” Nurse Cagstone said, her expression evening out.

“Despite what you might think, Mary, I am in charge of this institution. _You_ are just a nurse,” Sister Agnes said in an acidic tone.

“ _Head_ nurse, Sister. Did you burst in here for a reason, or do you just enjoy wasting my time?”

“At what point in the history of your employment at this institute have you had the authority to release a patient such as Nancy Devereaux?”

Nurse Cagstone regained her calm composure, her cool exterior disguising her annoyance at her authority being questioned. She rested her elbows on her desk, a small second-hand oak piece she had gotten at a flea market. The gentleman she had bought it from had promised her it was an antique, and surely worth a fortune, but “since she was such a pretty thing, he’d settle for twenty dollars and a kiss.” She, naturally, obliged, hoping to make a profit, and later had it valued; only to discover it wasn’t worth the twenty dollars she had paid for it. She had kept it, though, and still used it , as if to spite the man who had sold it to her. She rested her chin tentatively on the knuckles of her right hand, looking at Sister Agnes quite calmly.

“A gentleman came with release papers for her. By order of the judge overseeing her case.”

“What gentleman? I didn’t see him.”

“You were otherwise occupied, Sister, so I acted in your stead. He was Miss Devereaux’s lawyer, Robert Hoskins.”

Sister Agnes had spoken with Nancy Devereaux’s lawyer on several occasions, and while her lawyer had changed a few months into her stay at Hawthorn, she had never once encountered a Robert Hoskins. Of course, there was a chance her lawyer could have changed once more, but the Sister couldn’t help but be suspicious.

“And you say he had release papers?” she questioned, and Nurse Cagstone nodded in response. “Did you see said papers?”

Nurse Cagstone faltered slightly, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “No, but he did offer to show them to me. I just assumed, what with the warning we had…”

“You assumed it would be fine to let Nancy Devereaux walk out the front door?” Sister Agnes questioned accusingly. Nurse Cagstone merely nodded dumbfounded, slumping in her seat a little. The Sister bit back a curse, turning sharply on her heel. “You’d best hope she hasn’t gotten far, Mary, or so help me Lord, I will see you out of this institution before you can even _think_ about apologising.”


End file.
